


No Goodbyes

by bongbingbong



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alcohol, Autistic Bones, Autistic Picard, Bad Handwavey Science, Established Relationship, M/M, Time Travel, not explicitly but that's my HC and it informs how I write em
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27986115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bongbingbong/pseuds/bongbingbong
Summary: Doctor McCoy accidentally ends up on the Enterprise-D. The novelty wears off very fast, and soon enough he find himself missing home, and fighting the overwhelming fear of what might happen if he never gets back.
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Comments: 9
Kudos: 55
Collections: Bones McCoy H/C





	No Goodbyes

**Author's Note:**

> “The minute I heard my first love story,  
> I started looking for you, not knowing  
> how blind that was.  
> Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.  
> They’re in each other all along.”  
> \- Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi

Bones allowed his eyes to close momentarily, breathing in the dry recycled air of the Enterprise, hearing the faint whirr of the impulse drive below his feet, the soft beeps of the sickbay monitors holding steady. He let the familiar sounds wash over him, envelop him.

“Doctor McCoy? You were in the middle of a sentence” said Spock, and Bones’ eyes flew open.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, “got a little lost there for a second. I’m back.”

“You were speculating on Klingon anatomy,” said Spock. Bones did his best to ignore the inherent blandness to his voice, the lack of inflection.

“Yeah well, why don’t we give that topic a rest for a minute, hm?”

The two of them were seated side by side on a biobed, Bones’ cheek resting on Spock’s shoulder as the Vulcan sat stock still, his posture immaculate.

“What would you prefer to discuss,” said Spock.

“Dunno,” said Bones, scooting closer and pressing his face into Spock’s neck, “just wanna talk, you know?”

“Would you like me to provide a list of potential topics for discussion?”

“Jesus Spock, you sound like a robot,” muttered Bones, “and not in a good way.”

“My apologies,” replied Spock, not sounding sorry at all. On a normal day that would get a laugh out of Bones, or a rise. Today, it just widened the hollow that had been growing in his chest. A normal day. Like he ever had any of those.

“Perhaps we could return to the topic of your feelings towards me,” said Spock.

Bones drew back in mock horror.

“ _My_ feelings towards _you?_ ” he said, putting a hand delicately to his chest, “why Spock, how forward!”

Spock did not respond. On one of those fabled normal days, he would have raised an eyebrow. Bones could see it in his mind’s eye. He deflated a little.

“You know my feelings. My feelings are that you’re the most goddamn annoying piece of work I ever had the misfortune of getting to know. You’ve always got to have the last word, you spend half your time telling me how redundant my work is, and on top of that, you always make me keep our quarters pristinely tidy. A man’s gotta just let himself throw his work clothes on the floor after a long day sometimes, you know?”

The energy behind his outburst faded, and Bones realised he was tired.

“All I’m saying is I just - I didn't think I'd miss all of that from you. But I do.”

Bones wrapped his arms around Spock, but once again Spock did not respond. As much as he felt familiar to Bones, he didn’t feel quite _right_. There was something wrong there, an absence of the familiar tension he always carried between his shoulder blades. The way his hands stayed at his sides… his entire body was unresponsive to the embrace he was being held in. 

“Spock,” said Bones, “I love-”

Spock’s features crackled and glitched as that infuriating door chime sounded.

“Doctor McCoy?” said the Captain’s voice over the intercom.

“Computer, pause program,” said Bones flatly, looking pointedly away from Spock’s frozen form. 

The Captain was Jean-Luc Picard, the irritatingly aloof Captain of this blasted Enterprise-D. Or E. Something too far in the future to get his head around, at any rate.

“McCoy here,” he replied, trying and failing to keep the irritation out of his voice. Picard paused for a moment, presumably while he assessed his tone.

“I - er - regret to inform you that your holodeck booking ran out around fifteen minutes ago,” 

Bones looked skywards as he carefully blinked the moisture out of his eyes, willing the damp, heavy feeling out of his chest.

“Sorry,” he said, and his voice came out gravelly and rough.

“No harm done,” said Picard’s voice, carefully neutral. To disguise the pity, more likely than not. 

Bones took one last look at the not-quite-right features of his lover, then dug his nails of his left hand into the fleshy part of his palm.

“Computer,” he said through gritted teeth, “end program.”

*

Bones had been living in the guest quarters on deck 8 for the better part of three weeks at this point. One thing in the favour of this new Enterprise was that the beds were much more comfortable than what he was used to, and spacious too. He missed the feeling of a space that was his, though. The only personal belongings in the room were his tricorder and communicator - relics from a bygone era, now that he was in the twenty-fourth century.

Bones flopped down on his bed, not bothering to take off his shoes. He had been provided with a loose-fitting grey jumpsuit that marked him as a civilian, also very comfortable. He almost wished for something that felt uncomfortable, or even hurt - something that would match the pain of loneliness that filled him until he was so full he feared he might split open at the seams.

_“Intruder on the bridge!”_

_“What the hell, who are you guys?”_

_“Who are we? Sorry sir, but who are you? And why are you in that uniform? That design hasn’t been around for almost a hundred-”_

_“Doctor Leonard McCoy - I’d say at your service, but I don’t think that’s-”_

_“Doctor McCoy?”_

_“Doctor McCoy?”_

_“The Doctor McCoy?”_

Bones pressed his face into the pillow and let his mouth open in a silent scream, silently willing for the entire bed to simply swallow him whole.

_“We think you’ve passed through a temporal anomaly while you were trying to use the transporter, and it-”_

_“Well can you fix it? Can you send me back?”_

_“It really is you! Can you tell us about the Enterprise? What was it like serving with Captain Kirk? You guys are heroes!”_

_“Can you send me back?”_

The communicator in his quarters chimed - a more comfortable sound, not too intrusive, nothing like the shrill whistle he was used to. He felt too tired to respond, though he knew he would likely cause a fuss if he didn’t. People were worried about him. They might send the woman - the telepath - over. The one who had caught the grief that underpinned every politely interested conversation he’d had with this new Enterprise crew, and interpreted it as his way of “processing the act of being uprooted from his life,” like he hadn’t done that before, in worse conditions and by choice. No, she couldn’t know.

The communicator chimed again, this time accompanied by the gruff tones of the Klingon officer - they had a _Klingon officer_ on board, and he was… unexpectedly not-terrible. 

“Bridge to Doctor McCoy, Commander Riker would like to see you in your quarters at your earliest convenience.”

A pause. 

An awkward Klingon - the twenty-fourth century was full of surprises.

“I know that you are in your quarters,” continued the Klingon, his voice picking up pace as he rushed to complete his message, “so I will assume that you have heard this message and do not currently feel disposed to reply. Thank you.”

Bones rolled onto his back and threw an arm over his eyes. He was being dramatic, but given the time he’d had, he deserved to be.

*

_“You met my grandfather.”_

_Worf’s eyes are alight with familial pride as he says this, though this dims somewhat as he takes in the confusion and horror on Bones’ face. On the other side of the conference room, Picard gently massages his temples._

_“That hasn’t happened yet for him,” he says. His voice had very quickly taken on the slow, measured pace of someone trying very hard not to lose their patience._

_“You mean in a fight? Who won?” says Bones, his arms crossed. He isn’t entirely sure he likes the concept of his future self entering into a tangle with Klingons if this “Worf” was so proud of it._

_“It will be best if I refrain from giving you any further details,” says Worf, staring down at the table in front of him. Bones shifts uncomfortably in his seat and Picard straightens like he is grasping at what to say next. Worf opens his mouth again, and takes in a short breath._

_“You were all on the same side,” he says, releasing the thought into the room before anybody else can stop him._

Bones had no idea where Riker’s quarters were. Not only that, in his time here he had figured out that the Enterprise D resembled his Enterprise very much only in name. And general, saucer-like shape. The place was a veritable city-sized labyrinth of rooms and quarters and stations. There was a school! With a small museum! People were allowed to bring their children on board to live with them - and that fragile thought was one he tucked away, careful not to prod at it any further. Not right now.

The sign above the door said “Ten Forward.” From memory, that was the bar. There wasn’t anything dangerous about his future he could find out about in a bar, was there? Or if he did, hopefully he wouldn’t remember anything about it.

*

_You’re a doctor, dammit. If you’re going to be here for a while, you might as well make yourself useful. Keep your mind off things._

_“Doctor McCoy?”_

_Beverly snaps him out of his thoughts. She seems surprised to see him in sickbay._

_“Doctor Crusher,” he says, rocking forwards on the balls of his feet, “I’m here to help out."_

_She doesn’t look pleased. Bones falters._

_“Doctor Crusher? Is everything alright?”_

_There is a man on the biobed. Strange red diodes flash at his temples, and his eyes are a sightless milky white. In his hands he holds a strange half-circle contraption._

_“Does that help you see?”_

_As Bones blurts the question out, he suddenly realises why-_

_“You can’t be here,” says Beverly, as kindly as she can manage. Her eyes are sad and full of pity. He flees._

He had no idea what he’d drunk, but none of it seemed to be doing anything for his sour mood. The bartender - Guinan, the others had been calling her - brought him drink after drink, watching him with an inscrutable expression as he knocked them back as quickly as he could. He really needed to cut down on his drinking at some point. Nothing was having an effect on him at all, although he had to admit everything he was brought tasted excellent, if a bit unusual. Well, if boldly going meant interesting new drinks to try, he wasn’t going to be one to complain. Even if what he really wanted was something familiar, to take the edge off the crushing loneliness that the alcohol didn’t seem to be doing anything to help.

As if she’d read his mind, Guinan slid a tall glass towards him, topped with a sprig of mint. When he reached for it though, she put her hand over the top, holding it just out of his reach.

“Just a minute. You’re going through these pretty fast,” she said, moving herself a little closer so she could speak softly.

“Don’t tell me this is gonna be one of those ‘tell the bartender about my feelings’ moments,” grumbled Bones. 

“Not at all. I don’t want to hear about your feelings.”

Guinan’s smile held no malice, nor was it concealing any sarcasm. Bones could grudgingly appreciate that kind of honesty.

“Give me my damn drink, then.”

With her free hand, Guinan waggled a finger at him like one might to a naughty child.

“I think you might be trying to get drunk in my bar,” she said, “so I thought this might be a good time for me to tell you we mostly serve synthehol here.”

“Synth-”

“The alcohol’s been removed, Doctor. People drink these for the taste, and I take a lot of pride and care in my bartending. You’ve been wasting your time throwing back creations from all over the galaxy for no reason.”

Bones glared at her, then at the mint julep that she still held just that little bit too far away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and then exhaled, letting the irritation drain from him, “figures Starfleet’d do something like that when they finally got around to letting you put a bar on the Enterprise.”

Guinan’s smile widened.

“Well, at least take the time to enjoy what’s in front of you, won’t you?” 

Bones looked her directly in the eyes for the first time, and beneath the gentle teasing he saw that she was indeed deadly serious about something - something more than just the drink in front of him. He shivered under her scrutiny, and a part of him knew in that moment that she didn’t want to hear about his feelings because somehow she already knew… and worse than that, she _understood_.

Then the moment was gone, and Guinan pushed the glass towards him.

“I’d hate for you to miss out on something good just because you were too miserable to taste it.”

“Thanks,” said Bones warmly, mustering up a small smile to return. He took a sip, then sputtered at the sudden taste of _real_ bourbon. Already down the other end of the bar, Guinan turned and gave him a wink over her shoulder.

“I see you never made it to my quarters,” said a voice behind him. Ah, Riker.

Bones turned around, drink in hand.

“Sorry, I got lost,” he replied.

Riker looked as though he wanted to challenge that, but he swallowed whatever retort had crossed his mind and gestured towards one of the empty tables.

“Want to talk here instead?” he said.

“Sure, alright.”

Riker swung his leg over the back of the chair, and sat down. Nobody around them reacted to this, which suggested that this was usual for the man. Bones raised an eyebrow, but took his seat across from him. The normal way.

Riker had a strange look on his face, a kind of forced smile that crinkled at his eyes, but in a way that made him seem more like he was in pain than anything else. Bones knew the look well - Jim got it often enough when he was on his way to a conversation that he didn’t really want to have. From the way Riker was fiddling with the stem of his martini glass, it looked like it was going to be something pretty bad.

“So, how’s the stay going?” Riker said, and then winced.

“About as well as you’d expect from someone who’s been shot a hundred years into the future,” grumbled Bones. He took a sip of his drink, and the resulting burn down the back of his throat felt like an admonishment.

“Sorry,” he continued, “I’m just - you know. There’s nothing here for me to do, in case it messes up the whole… progression of time when I get back. _If_ I get back.”

“We’re working on it,” said Riker, “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more than that.”

Bones waved the apology away.

“S’fine. That’s a relief though, I gotta say - I thought you were here to deliver me some bad news.”

“What?” Riker paused to run back through the conversation in his head, then shook his head at himself.

“You’re right. I didn’t start that very well, did I. Straight to the point then - how do you feel about teaching?”

Bones stared at Riker like he’d just suggested they take all their clothes off and scrub the observation window with their chest hair.

“With all due respect commander, in case you hadn’t noticed any information locked away in this brain of mine is a hundred years old! What the hell would anyone want with me in a school room?”

“That’s just it!” said Riker, his eyes suddenly lighting up, “the stories of the Enterprise, everything you did on that ship… it’s all part of legend now. I grew up hearing about your adventures with Captain Kirk, and Spock, and - well - all of them. It wouldn’t be a science lesson, it’d be… it’d be a history lesson.”

“Ah, bring the old relic in to teach the kids like a museum piece,” said Bones, although the intended humour in the statement didn’t quite make its mark. Riker visibly deflated and Bones felt a little pang of guilt, right in his gut. He took another swallow of his drink.

“Well. So long as kids in the twenty-fourth century have still got manners, I don’t see why I couldn’t… come by at some point. Have a talk with some of the little ones. If they want, that is.”

Finally, a genuine smile lit up the commander’s features. In spite of everything, it was infectious.

“I can’t tell you what an honour that would be,” said Riker, a little breathlessly, “- for the children, I mean,” he added quickly.

“Would you be there to supervise?” said Bones.

Riker’s lips pressed together for a moment as he forced himself back into professionalism. He could not, however, stop the faint pink blush from spreading across his cheeks.

“If I’m needed, I will of course be at your service,” he said.

“Wonderful,” said Bones, holding up his glass, “I look forward to it.”

Riker held up his own, and they clinked them together.

*

There was a note on his door when he got back to his quarters. It was handwritten, and on real paper, smooth, bordered with a decorative print of vines outlined in gold. The writing on it was a neat, unremarkable cursive that outlined a polite invitation to dinner in the Captain’s quarters, signed Captain Jean-Luc Picard. 

Bones brought the little note in with him, placing it on the table by the door. His conversation with Guinan, and then subsequently with Riker, had been quite enough interaction for the day. It seemed odd, thinking about the endless conversations his job necessitated on a daily basis. Those never drained him in the way having to speak to people on this ship did. He supposed it was something to do with… all this.

Still, he kept the note. The Captain had gone to all of the trouble of writing it out, and the frivolity of a real paper note did have a certain charm to it. It seemed like the sort of thing Jim might enjoy. Spock too, although he’d denounce it as illogical and then carefully place it on his shelf, next to the rock Bones had brought him back from Parius IV.

_“Doctor, this is a stone.”_

_“Yeah, a nice one!”_

_“I fail to see the logic in gifting someone a stolen piece of alien landscape because you found it… aesthetically pleasing.”_

_“Of course you’d fail at that. Feel it!”_

_“It is… cool to the touch.”_

_“And smooth!”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Yes?”_

_“Yes. I must admit-”_

_“What are you gonna admit? Vulcans gotta tell the truth, remember!”_

_“-that you are, as usual Doctor, completely insufferable when it comes to trivialities.”_

Bones flung one arm over his eyes and drew in a deep breath to crowd the oncoming sob out of his lungs. He held his breath until the urge was over, until the only remnants of the sudden wash of melancholy died away, leaving only miniscule droplets that clung to his eyelashes.

Somewhere, in between counting his breaths and resolutely _not_ thinking about the romantic possibilities that handwritten notes now afforded him, Bones fell asleep.

*

Bones woke some hours later to the door chime. He blinked blearily a few times, before he groaned and then rolled off his bed, shaking his head to clear it. He really shouldn’t have fallen asleep at all; his mouth felt like cotton wool and he could feel the beginnings of a headache behind his left eye. 

The door chimed again, and the deep voice of Captain Picard came through the comm.

“Doctor McCoy? Are you alright in there?”

“Yeah yeah, just a second,” replied Bones, placing a hand against the wall and leaning his forehead against it, just for a moment. He took a deep breath.

“Come in.”

Picard was at his door holding a cloth-covered tray in one hand, and a bottle of wine and a wooden box in the other. He was wearing a soft brown cowl-necked tunic, and Bones wondered if it was so that he would appear less imposing, more welcoming. Picard still wouldn’t quite meet his eyes though.

“You didn’t respond to my note, but ah - I thought I would take the liberty. Enough of my staff have imposed on me when I thought I didn’t really want it…”

“It’s alright,” said Bones, “I’ve done my fair share of the same, when I thought it was necessary. I guess you wouldn’t be Captain if your judgement wasn’t worth trusting.”

He showed Picard to the table, and the two of them took a seat opposite each other. Picard took the cloth off the tray, to reveal a plate of fried chicken, potatoes, greens, and peach cobbler. Bones took one look at the food and burst out laughing, but stopped himself when a look of alarm briefly crossed Picard’s features.

“I could send for something else if it’s not to your liking-” 

“No!” said Bones, forcing down another giggle, “no, god - no, it’s wonderful. It really is. It just… it looks like you walked up to the replicator, went ‘we’ve got a Georgia man on the premises’ and took the first thing it came up with.”

The side of Picard’s mouth lifted in an embarrassed half-smile.

“That is, more or less, what I did.”

“Well, I appreciate it,” said Bones, “and I’ll make sure to show up at your quarters with a plate of croissants next time I see you.”

“I happen to quite like croissants,” said Picard mildly, pouring them both a glass of wine. His eyes twinkled with mirth as he said it, and something inside Bones that he hadn’t noticed had been all twisted up, loosened.

From then, the evening passed in relatively amicable conversation. Luckily for Bones, Picard had an avid interest in archaeology - another safe topic for the two of them - and he knew enough on the subject from Jim’s interest in Earth history to follow what was being said. Picard had been delighted when Bones revealed Jim’s interest in Shakespeare, his tendency to break out a quote under his breath at every opportune moment. For Picard, in a role where people took every opportunity to point out how different he was to the legendary Captain Kirk, it was nice to know there was something that tied the two of them together. For Bones, he was surprised to find that it felt good to talk about Jim to someone. Not happy - that was the wrong word for it. But like he was a little less far away. A little more tangible.

“This is real, isn’t it?” said Bones, taking another sip of his wine. It really was very good.

“Oh yes,” said Picard, “it’s from my family vineyard. I keep a few bottles - for special occasions.”

“I’m honoured,” said Bones with a smile. 

"A votre santé," replied Picard, raising his glass, which Bones mirrored.

“In Vulcan it’s na’ha’kiv,” said Bones, his throat catching on the last syllable. His eyes shuttered, and when he opened them, Picard was giving him an odd look. Not the terrible pity that Beverly Crusher had given him, nor Riker’s awkward optimism. No, this was something closer to how Guinan had looked at him. 

Picard retrieved the wooden box he had brought with him, and took out a long, thin instrument with a white tassel attached to it. It looked a little like a penny whistle.

“This is a Ressikan flute,” said Picard, handing it to Bones with such careful reverence that Bones worried it might shatter in his hands. He held it as Picard continued,

“It’s the last surviving artefact of a long dead planet. Some time ago, a probe entered my mind and I lived an entire lifetime there within the span of twenty-five minutes. So that somebody out there would remember them.”

Bones turned the flute over in his hands as this information sunk in. An entire lifetime? To live and die and come back to the Enterprise and start again?

“I had a wife there, in Ressik. Children.”

Children. Bones tried to imagine Picard as a family man, living his life out in a quaint village on a doomed world. The image didn’t quite coalesce.

“Bet you’d do anything to get back to them,” he said, handing the flute back with care. 

“No,” said Picard, “I wouldn’t. They existed only in a fantasy, a creation.”

Picard put the flute back in its box and shut the lid.

“But what you had in your own time was real,” he continued, “and I - I just wanted you to know. That I will do everything in my power to get you back. Timelines and the Department of Temporal Investigations be damned, I _will_ see to it that you return. You have my promise on that.”

Bones swallowed and nodded, any words to articulate his thanks seeming inadequate for how grateful he felt to Picard, this strange, reserved, aloof man who had just offered up a deeply personal pain to help him.

“How do you live with it? Does it ever go away?” he said, unable to keep his voice from trembling. Picard’s eyes raised to the ceiling briefly, and Bones worried that he might have pushed this a little too far. But then Picard looked back at him

“Not a day goes by where I don’t struggle to let go, or have to - to fight against thoughts of what could have been. What _should_ have been. At first, I tried to fight the fact that everything reminded me of them. But then I found that the harder I fought, the worse it became. Eventually I discovered that it was much better to just let myself remember them, like they’d asked me to.”

“Makes sense,” said Bones, swirling the last of his drink around his glass. He drained the rest of it, then nodded his thanks as Picard gave him a refill.

“So tell me about her.”

Picard was the kind of man whose features always seemed tense, like himself. Perhaps, like himself, he struggled to control how he was supposed to be arranging them at any given moment. Regardless, the lines around his mouth relaxed, and his eyes filled with warmth.

“I was terrible at remembering to put my shoes away… but she’d always remember, and she’d always do it for me.”

“And then gently scold you afterwards?” said Bones.

“Sometimes not so gently,” said Picard with a laugh.

“Whatever your wife used to say to you, it can’t be worse than Spock using the shipwide intercom to remind me to put my uniform away.”

Picard blinked.

“You two shared quarters?”

“We shared a whole lot more than that.”

“Well,” said Picard, “I certainly didn’t learn about that in any of the history books.”

Bones shrugged, “doesn’t surprise me. Vulcans, you know. Although if you think that’s bad, wait ‘til you hear about this one-”

*

The intercom story made its way into the history lesson, too. It turned out, becoming a legend did strange things to the way people remembered you. History books, it seemed, were still written by men who had perhaps once had the honour to shake your hand in Damascus.

“Is it true that Ambassador Spock once tried to kill Captain Kirk?”

Oh, how stories shrunk down over time.

“Sort of,” said Bones, “that’s not really - well, it was a bit more complicated than that. It had to do with a very strange Vulcan ritual-”

Bones’ voice trailed off, realising suddenly that every eye in the room was trained on him with intense, unwavering interest. He suddenly felt extremely hot.

“-which, I’m sorry to say, is also secret enough that I think Mr Spock would be very angry with me if I told you any more.”

“Aww, but sir!”

“ _Please_!”

“No no, that’s it for that one, next question.”

One of the boys, slightly older and taller than most of the others, smirked at his friend and put his hand up. 

“Yes?” said Bones

“So... was Captain Kirk really all that good a captain? Most of the time it sounds like he went around starting fights so he could karate chop people. Just because he made a lot of first contacts… I mean, he was just there first, right?” said the boy, sprawled in his chair. His chin was raised slightly like he was issuing a challenge.

“So what you’re askin’ me is really - is Kirk actually good at what he does or did he just get lucky?” said Bones, raising an eyebrow at him. Riker looked like he wanted to intervene, but the boy frowned, clearly thinking seriously about the question.

“Yeah,” said the boy, “I guess I am.”

“Lemme ask you this then. A probe appears on your ship. It can kill your crew at will, wipe their memories, access all the files on the ship’s computer, and you find it wants to sterilise all 'imperfect' beings. It wants to get rid of every human on board. It’s turned life support off. If you don’t do something right now, it’s going to die.”

The boy stared at him.

“Quickly now!” barked Bones, “your crew is dying!”

“I - uh - I’d create a new phaser setting to-”

“No time. What do you do?”

“Blow it up! Or I - I’d beam it out of the ship!”

“It’s got _control_ of the ship!”

“I dunno!” the boy threw his hands up in exasperation, “I’m not a captain!”

“No, of course not,” said Bones, “but what I’m saying is when you’re a captain - you never know. When it comes down to making a split second decision, there’s no way you can tell if what you’re going to try is going to work, or if it’s going to end in the loss of hundreds of lives. But what you _can_ do is skew the odds in your favour. You listen to your crew. You listen to your ship. You look at this machine, calibrated for perfection, and say to yourself ‘hmm? What if I made it realise it itself wasn’t perfect?’”

“Wait,” said the boy, “you mean he just _talked_ the probe to death?”

“Pretty much,” said Bones, “didn’t even throw a punch.”

A murmur of surprise travelled around the room, and Bones wondered what the hell people had been saying about Jim that meant everyone seemed to think he was a trigger-happy brawler. Perhaps he would have to make a few suggestions to him to tone it down if - when he got back. Ah yes, like Jim would ever listen.

“Doctor McCoy?”

The girl who had spoken pronounced it “Mack-oy,” and Bones found it extraordinarily endearing.

“Yes my dear?”

“Are you enjoying your time here? In the twenty-fourth century?”

“Sure is kind of you to ask!” said Bones, and his chest filled with warmth as the girl beamed.

“To be totally honest, it’s really hard. It’s hard being away from my home and the people I call my family - but I’m enjoying talking to all of you, and your crew here have all been very kind to me.”

A sea of hands went up immediately.

“Did you get to talk to Captain Picard?”

“He’s so serious!”

“I heard Commander Riker has a big crush on Captain Kirk, my dad says he talks about him all the time-”

“Alright kids,” said Riker from the back, sensing things were going to get silly if they were left for very much longer, “does anybody have any last questions?”

A very small boy down the back raised a hand. He’d looked to be on the verge of saying something for most of the session, but had been too shy to ask.

“Yes?” said Bones gently.

“Sir,” he said, his voice high-pitched and quiet, “I was just wondering. Is the story true? About Commander Scott getting his you-know-what stuck in the engine room because he tried to-”

_“Bridge to Commander Riker.”_

The intercom chirped to life and Riker rose from his seat, relieved that the session could now officially be declared over.

“Riker here.”

“Could you and Doctor McCoy make your way to the transporter room please? We’ve got some good news.”

Bones’ heart fluttered in his chest, and the girl - the one who called him Mack-oy, put her hand up.

“Are you leaving now?” she said, her eyes wide.

“I…” said Bones, “I hope so.”

“Good. I hope you’re going home. Goodbye, Doctor Mack-oy!”

She was joined by a chorus of voices and hands, waving as Riker led him out of the room. He smiled and waved back, and then he was out the door.

Kids on the Enterprise. Who would have thought.

*

Picard had come to see him off. They were accompanied by a strange man - an alien perhaps? He had yellow eyes, pearlescent yellow skin, and an expressionless though not unkind-looking face.

“This is Data,” said Picard, “he’s an android, and we have him to thank for the calculations that are hopefully going to get you back.”

Bones barely dared to hope, but despite his rational brain’s best efforts, his heart began to pound in anticipation.

“A pleasure,” said Bones, “but er, what do you mean by ‘hopefully?’”

Data tilted his head and stepped forwards.

“Unfortunately, it is impossible to determine the results of our recalibration with any degree of certainty, due to the unpredictable nature of the temporal anomaly that caused your initial transfer to us. I can however say that the hypothesis our crew has collaborated on has been made only with the utmost attention to detail and with full consideration of all possible outside factors that may be accounted for.”

Fortunately, Bones was well versed in translating Vulcan-speak.

“So... you guys are making an educated guess,” he said flatly.

Picard looked like he wanted to interject, but Bones held up a hand.

“It’s alright,” he said, trying to keep his voice from wavering, “I trust you.”

Picard inclined his head, and then took his hand and clasped it warmly.

“I can’t tell you what a pleasure it’s been having you on my ship,” he said. Bones added his free hand on top and squeezed, hoping that Picard would be able to feel the depth of gratitude he felt towards this captain, this future carrier of the legacy he now knew they would leave behind. From the shiny glint in the captain’s eyes, Bones supposed it had worked.

“Thank you,” whispered Bones, and then the two of them broke apart once more, Picard straightening his uniform and standing once more at attention.

“If you would step onto the transporter pad please,” said Data, moving over to the controls. Bones did as he said, and took a deep breath, trying not to get too excited. It might not work. He might be jettisoned into deep space. He might-

“Preparing for transportation of Doctor McCoy,” said Data.

“See you all later,” said Bones, “and look after this ship! You treat her like a lady, she’ll always bring you home.”

“That is what you said last time,” said Data, tilting his head to the side.

“Wait, that’s what I said when?”

Then, everything whited out and for a brief moment, Doctor Leonard McCoy ceased to exist.

*

_“Bones! Where’d he go?”_

_“I don’t have a lock on him anywhere Captain, it’s like he’s disappeared!”_

_“He can’t have gone!”_

_“Unless there is quite a significant malfunction with our equipment, we must trust - at least in terms of physical manifestation - that Doctor McCoy is no longer… with us.”_

_“Impossible-”_

Bones was thrown back into time with such force that he barrelled straight into Spock, knocking them both over.

“Doctor McCoy,” said Spock, still calm and collected as ever even flat on his back, his usually perfect fringe in a mess across his forehead. Bones couldn’t help himself, he kissed him right there on the floor of the transporter room, right in front of Kirk and Scotty and three very confused engineering officers. 

When Bones pulled away, Spock brought his hands up to rest on his hips, and the Vulcan noted by touch that they felt a little narrower, that the lines on his lover’s face were a little deeper. There was a wildness in his eyes that hadn’t been there mere minutes ago when he had stepped onto the transporter, a desperation that could not have developed in that short amount of time. He opened his mouth to ask, but was interrupted by Jim.

“Bones,” he said, “what are you _wearing?”_

Bones let Spock help him up, and didn’t miss the way his hand lingered at the small of his back, keeping the two of them connected at all times. Spock knew. He didn’t know the facts, but he knew what he needed, and affection and relief flooded him and it was all he could do not to grab Spock and rush the two of them back to their quarters right now. 

Spock’s hand tensed, and he knew he’d thought that one pretty loudly. Good. Spock should know. He was going to tell Spock everything. He was going to write it down on little pieces of beautiful paper, he was going to-

“Well?” said Jim, snapping him out of his thoughts, “where were you?”

“Same ship,” said Bones, “but it was ah - more of a matter of _when_.


End file.
